


Horror of Staying Alive

by wingedrat (orphan_account)



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 18:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21450484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wingedrat
Summary: AU where Curt doesn't shoot to kill.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	Horror of Staying Alive

Four years. Four long years of grieving over his partner, four long years of drinking and misery. Yet, it turned out the agent was alive after all. Curt never wanted to reunite with Owen like this, his shaking hand holding a gun mere inches away from the British man’s temple. The way he seemed to accept his death, staring straight into Curt’s eyes as he waited for the bullet to enter his skull. 

…

But it never did. Curt still loved him, never stopped loving him, even if he really was being a sleazeball at this point in time. Maybe Owen was able to kill him, the cold blooded bastard, but the look on his face? The sorrowful and guilty but blank expression in his eyes? This wasn’t the spy he had spent so many months with, it was just the empty shell of him. So, in a last minute rash decision, he aimed the gun at Owen’s thigh, and pulled the trigger. 

Owen let out a sharp cry of pain, obviously not anticipating the pain that shot through his leg. He toppled over, and Curt instinctively held out his arms, holding the man in a tight grip. “Sh, it’s okay.” he whispered, putting a hand on Owen’s chest and shoving him down backwards with an audible thud. He didn’t bother being gentle. He placed his foot on the other man’s chest, and bent down, wrapping his hands around Owen’s throat.

He let out a choked noise and pried at Curt’s hands, body thrashing as he tried to get the American off him. It hurt to see him like this, but he had to do what he had to do. Tightening the hold on his neck, it took only a few more minutes for Owen to shut his eyes, stop moving. A pool of blood was forming under him.

Poor kid. The wiggling probably didn’t help with the pain from the bullet. He propped Owen up, and slid the jacket off of him, then ripped off a length of fabric from the sleeve. Curt glanced down at the bullet wound, which was still steadily bleeding. He wrapped it around his thigh, tightening it up real good as a makeshift tourniquet.

Unbuckling the ex-spy’s belt, he grabbed his wrists and held them together, wrapping the belt around his wrists. Tight enough to the point he wouldn’t be able to slip out, but loose enough so no circulation was cut off. “Okay, darling. Let’s do this.”

Curt got up, hauling the unconscious body up with him and tossing him over his shoulder. For his height, he was concerningly lightweight. He thought he looked skinnier, but didn’t know if it was just the lighting or whatever. “We’re gonna fix you right up, okay? You can count on it.”

-

Everything went by like a blur. He knew he had been asleep, but every now and then, he caught quick glimpses of other faces, a faint background noise, and occasionally, a prick- what felt like a needle digging into his skin. Owen’s head pounded, and everytime he tried to open his eyes, they drooped back down. After what was way too much effort to perform a basic human function, he managed to open his eyes. The bright lights from the ceiling were blinding. Everything was blurry, but he knew that there was definitely one person in the room. He tried to get up, but quickly realized that his arms and legs were bound to the chair. Hell, even if he weren’t tied up, he assumed that whatever in his system would prevent him from being awake enough to stand.

A few minutes later, and his vision was starting to clear up. He could now slightly make out the details of something, provided they be close enough, like the table and chair sitting in front of him. Otherwise, it all looked like a blob. Owen knew that someone was standing in the the upper right corner of the room, could see a human shaped figure that was leaning against the wall with their arms crossed.

Once they had noticed him staring directly at them, they strode over. Whoever it was, they pulled the empty seat away from the table, the legs of the furniture making a horrible noise on the cement floor. 

Oh God.

It was Curt.

He stopped breathing, couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Turning his head so fast he almost got whiplash, he clenched his jaw. The pain, emotions seemed to be flooding in at once. How sore his throat was, the burning pain in his leg, how he was seconds away from crying.

Curt, however, didn’t seem to be too happy with that. “Look at me.” he demanded. When Owen did not comply, the American grabbed his chin, forcing him to look him right in the eyes. Owen shrank under the scrutiny of his glare, fingers clenching behind his back. He needed to get out, needed to get back to Chimera.

“Don’t touch me.” he hissed, the words coming out of his throat as a quiet rasp. It hurt to talk- that was probably the first time he had formed a coherent sentence in hours. The choking had definitely left a mark on his neck (and vocal chords), and he hadn’t had a single sip of water in far too long. There was no smartass quip to it, and it seemed to have taken Curt by surprise. Okay, so he was just a bit more weak than he thought he’d been. Torture really does that to you, though. 

As tired as he was, Owen kept his guard up. Curt was contemplating, he could tell from the way his index finger drummed against the table. Time seemed to slow down. It had felt like hours had passed, but if he were being logical, probably a minute at most. He got up, looking at Owen guiltily. “What did they do to you?” Curt had whispered, before leaving the room.

Owen didn’t even get to reply, as he was out of the room so quickly.

He thought Curt was just going to leave him here like he had before, bring the Russian girl to interrogate him or something. From the many things he knew about her, she was a total badass compared to the American. Owen was probably going to be here for a while, might as well get comfortable. He tried his best to slouch down, but the bonds on his legs and hands didn’t really aid much. The cool metal (they probably didn’t trust the belt enough to hold him in place) dug into his wrists, and he wished he could just take them off.

The silence was insufferable. As much as he… hated, Curt, he wished that the man was still here. He had become so used to being alone, but now? After Curt finally saw the real him, underneath the mask? Owen had started to miss the nights they spent together, the soft touches, gentle kisses in the dark.

No, you know what? He did hate Curt. Hated him for keeping him alive- if only he had been put out of his misery. This isn’t what he had wanted to become, the “deadliest man alive” with a body count of over one thousand, partnering with Nazis cause he was so desperate to get what he wanted.

Clenching his teeth, fingernails digging into the palm of his hands, he smashed his head steel table with a loud bang. Kept on doing that, blood dripping down his forehead, and it didn’t help with his headache at all. The banging seemed to attract someone, and before he knew it, the door had slammed open, Tatiana rushing to his side. She held him in a chokehold, and at this point, he was too woozy to know what was going on anymore. There was the faint sound of yelling- she was yelling for Curt. He closed his eyes, and the next moment, he was sitting on the floor, held up by Tatiana as Curt snapped his fingers in front of his face.

“-en! Owen!”

There was a hand on his temple, the leather sleeve of a jacket wiping the blood off from his forehead. and the last thing Owen saw was the horrified look on Curt’s face. “This is your fault,” he managed to choke out, and then everything went black.

-

He woke up again, this time in the infirmary, head resting in none other than Curt’s lap. Fingers were running through his hair, messy and not as well kempt as it always was. The feeling was nice. He was scared Curt was going to stop when he noticed that Owen was awake, so he pretended to still be sleeping.

“I know you’re awake, Carvour.”

Fuck. Owen opened one eye, looked up at Curt. He didn’t know what went wrong, but all of a sudden he flinched away and landed on the floor. All instincts were telling him to run, get out while you can, when Curt isn’t expecting you to, but he just sat there. He placed his hands on the floor, tried to scoot away, but the wound in his leg forced him to stay still- he didn’t want to further push away his recovery time.

Tears started to form. He shut his eyes tight, shaking his head. “Piss off.” Owen shouted when Curt got too close. “You left me there to die! Do you know how painful it was? They tore me apart, limb by limb, and then pieced me back together. I was blindly faithful in you, expected you to come back, but you never did!”

“Owen…”

“No, shut the fuck up! You don’t get to say anything. This is all your fault! You’ll never understand what I went through- should’ve put the bullet in my brain. Do you want me to suffer, Mega? Just kill me!”

With all the strength he could muster up, Owen shoved the other spy to the floor and leaned over him, pulling his blood stained jacket off as he was on the hunt for his gun. He found it, tucked into the back of Owen’s pants- couldn’t be too careful around these parts. He lifted it up to his mouth, but before he could even pull the trigger, he was kicked into the abdomen. Owen flew back, gun pointed at the ceiling as he accidentally fired it. The gun was knocked out of his hand, slid across the tile floor. He scrambled to get up, but Curt had other plans for him.

The American’s fist came flying towards his face in an instant, and Owen tried to fight back, he really did. The quest to get the gun had used all of his energy, and he grunted in pain when knuckles met his cheek. He lay there on the floor, panting as he stared at the man on top of him. “Oh,” he managed to say. “didn’t know we were doing this so soon. I’m not in the best shape for some screwing around, love.”

“You are a slimy bastard, you know that, Owen?” Curt whispered, then he was leaning in and all the pain was forgotten. He had been so touch starved (you can’t make the time for things like this when you’re being tortured or killing someone), and just stopped caring. A whimper escaped his throat, and a hand slipped under his head and held it up, and God, the moment Curt’s lips touched his Owen was pretty sure he was going to have a stroke, because his heart started beating so fast and-

He pulled away, a flush on his face. He couldn’t do it. Owen still couldn’t bring himself to forgive the man. As hurt as Curt looked, he seemed to understand, because the next thing he knew, he was being pulled into a hug, and Curt’s head was buried in the crook of his neck and he was sobbing.

Awkwardly sitting there, he returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Curt.

“I’m sorry.” the shorter man whispered.

“I’m not gonna forgive you, you know that?”

“I don’t care. I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“...Apology accepted.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-

It was a long recovery. Owen still didn’t fully trust him, but Curt didn’t blame him for that. The things he went through definitely left a mark on his conscience, but that was okay. Because he still loved him, and Curt knew that Owen loved him too. He knew that Owen still loved him, not through words, but actions. The way he clung to him, giving subtle death stares at anyone who even dared to touch him. It was possessive, but in a cute way, he guessed. Owen understood his limits, knew the difference between flirting and just platonic talks, but he couldn’t help but be worried that the love of his life would be ripped away from him once more.

Curt knew that Owen loved him because no matter what position they fell asleep in, one would always end up in the other’s arms. The way that Owen’s fingers would intertwine with his whenever no one was looking, how he made him coffee every morning just the way he liked it. How excited he was when he was put back on the field, and his first mission was a simple one, just him and Curt- no pestering from Cynthia or Barb or anything like that. (Granted, his tracker was on 24/7, and there was always someone trailing behind him. Owen didn’t notice, or maybe he did and just didn’t want to bring it up. Either way, the pure glee on his face once they had returned was adorable. MI6 hadn’t wanted him back, so he was officially working for the Americans now).

He knew every inch, every curve, every “imperfection” on Owen’s body. He knew what made him upset, his favorite pastimes, how he had a justifiable hate for bananas, and things he should never mention to Owen lest he brought back bad memories. He still had episodes- but they had gotten better over time.

He knew what got him going, used that to his advantage. Curt loved getting him flustered during missions, always teased him about it. Owen had claimed he found it humiliating, but Curt could see straight through his lies.

He knew that they’d never be separated again.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry i never beta read any of my fics cause im scared of seeing my own creations
> 
> this is like, the longest thing ive wrote. not very impressive, but whatever. this was also posted on wattpad.
> 
> also, its late and im too tired to fix the words that were italics but Are Now Not


End file.
